Crescendo
by LR Earl
Summary: In the Dark Lord's new world order, Draco Malfoy specializes in doling out pleasure in exchange for guarded information, until he's tasked with breaking his most challenging prisoner yet. Dramione. Warnings: Captured prisoner fic, non-con, lemons, angst.
1. Chapter 1

**Crescendo**

 **Summary** : In the Dark Lord's new world order, Draco Malfoy specializes in doling out pleasure in exchange for guarded information, until he's tasked with breaking his most challenging prisoner yet. Dramione. Warnings: Captured prisoner fic, non-con, lemons, angst.

 **Author's Note** : PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS! This story is dark, contains dark themes, and will not romanticize non-con. If you don't like this type of story, then do not read it. With that said, this fic is dedicated to the Strictly Dramione Facebook group and the original poster who was in the mood for captor/prisoner fics where Draco or Hermione uses sex (oral or otherwise) as an interrogation tactic on the other (not roleplay). Thanks for the plot bunny, and enjoy this romp through devilish delights. 😉

And a special thank you to SaintDionysus for offering beta services and wonderful suggestions! This fic is better for it. X

* * *

The mind's capabilities are endless when under pressure, truly. Draco Malfoy learns this unfortunate truth at just eighteen-years-old. At the close of the second Wizarding World war, the newly-victorious Dark Lord presented his followers with two choices: resist and die or kneel and evolve. And so, like many others that day, Draco chose to evolve, for evolving meant staying alive.

And ever since, the Dark Lord carefully molded him into the perfect tool for his newly-constructed world order. The process took years and came either by direct tutelage or indirect lessons.

' _Despite your family's faults, you can atone for their mistakes, young master Malfoy. That is, if you wish to serve,'_ the Dark Lord had whispered as Draco dutifully walked behind his Lord shortly after the final battle at Hogwarts. Though they glided through the halls of Malfoy Manor, Draco mused it was _his_ Manor now. Soon the pair found themselves in his mother's bedroom, or what used to be his mother's bedroom. Draco swallowed the unpleasant memory that broached the surface as he thought of his mother. He rubbed a hand over his mouth to force the bile down his throat.

She made a choice, he painfully reminded himself as a prisoner of war levitated into the bedroom.

During his very first lesson, Draco watched intently, equal parts disgusted and fascinated as the Dark Lord stripped the witch, an Auror from looks of her Ministry-stamped cloak, naked. She whimpers as her wrists and ankles are chained to the bed. Draco is not a virgin, so he does not flinch as the Dark Lord circles his prey and thrusts his face into the unnamed witch's cunt. His Lord is adept in carnal knowledge as well, it seems, for it isn't long before the Auror is broken and weeping in ecstasy, as the Dark Lord assaults her weeping pussy on stained satin sheets.

Draco is instructed to watch, so he does as the woman wails in a twisted song of rapture and shame.

Grinning, the Dark Lord lifts his face, dripping with the Auror's arousal, and places a hand on the woman's cunt. The woman cries as she tries to curl upon herself, but is prevented from doing so by her constraints. "You see, young master Malfoy," the Dark Lord instructs, "At the edge of the world, we are naught but flesh with wants and desires. You will excel at extracting what we cannot by _traditional_ means." He strokes a finger around the witch's quivering entrance and beckons his ward, "Now, come here."

That was seven years ago.

Now at twenty-five years-old, Draco Malfoy has evolved into something that resembles a man, with urges and wants, but operates more as a machine. Freethought and independence were stolen the day the Dark Lord invited him to feast upon an unnamed witch until she sobbed and pleaded, promising to deliver anything they wanted. The wizard he used to be vanished, and has been re-made into a weapon, ever proficient in the art of seduction.

As the Dark Lord grew confident of Draco's process, he instructed him to grow his flock. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini joined this most unnatural unit three years prior, and despite their best efforts, word grew of the young faction's combined abilities. When Voldemort would hold court, he often boasted of his 'Dark Hand', as he was fond of calling his trio. His court would clap and nod politely, but in truth, his followers were equally intrigued and terrified of what went on in Draco's tender care. The most stalwart rebels would be sent to him after traditional methods of torture failed.

All would return irreparably broken beyond repair, though none bore a physical scar.

As Draco stands alone on the balcony of the Manor's east wing, he studies his hands, his personal weapons of choice. To the naked eye, there are pure and free from blemish, but to him, they are forever stained with the evidence of his proficiency.

"Muggle Britain has fallen, Draco," a silky voice interrupts his thoughts. "Their Ministry was finally overpowered by the Dark Lord. I hear there's to be a treaty of some sort with their Muggle leader tomorrow."

Draco looks over his shoulder, not surprised to find Pansy approaching. She was his first recruit after the Dark Lord had instructed him to find and train others in this most peculiar specialty. A natural tease, Pansy made the transition into a 'Dark Mistress' quite easily. Cold and calculating to all others, there is love in her eyes as she regards him now. "I know you don't like to be disturbed, but I thought you should know."

Draco shoves his blemish-free (but never clean) hands into his pockets and lifts a haughty eyebrow at the petite brunette. "Is that all?"

She shakes her head, sending her immaculately coifed bob every which way. "With Muggle Britain now under the Dark Lord's control, the rebels will have lost their Muggle backing. Eventually, they will be flushed out of hiding, and when they do…" she leaves the sentence hanging, almost giddy for him to finish.

"Potter will be forced out of hiding, or someone who knows where he is, will," Draco finished bitterly.

"Blaise believes he is close with his newest pet," Pansy informs him as she takes his elbow, ignorant of his resentment, and buries closer to him for warmth. She is at ease with their station in this new world. A lifetime ago, she had dreamed of their marriage, perfect pure-blooded children, and parties. Though their trajectory has changed, they work together in service to the Dark Lord, and she is content with that.

She has tried many times to take him into her bedroom ("For pleasure," she would laugh), but he always turns her down.

"And another thing," she begins again.

Draco sighs, and knows the remainder of his solitude as disappeared with the setting sun.

"The Dark Lord has gifted us a manor of our own. Won't it be grand to finally leave this place? I'm going with Blaise in the morning to see it. Ashton Hall, I believe it's called…"

Draco nods and dutifully replies during the breaks in conversation as Pansy charts plans and their next steps. He wants to vomit.

* * *

"Did you hear? What they did to Luna?" The question scraps past the barrier of Harry Potter's lips as if the words burn. Pushing his glasses sharply up the brim of his nose, he cuts her off before there is a chance to answer. "Don't," he warns his twenty-five-year-old best friend and fellow soldier. Sitting across the kitchen table in 12 Grimmauld Place, his emerald eyes flash as he begs her, "Promise me you won't, Hermione."

But Hermione Granger was never one to be ordered around, and despite her promise, Harry should have known she would seek out someone who knew what happened to the carefree sprite who suddenly returned fifteen pounds lighter and a ghost of her former self. Three weeks later, Hermione finds the young witch alone in an upstairs bedroom at Grimmauld Place, staring blankly at the wall. If Luna hears Hermione opening the door and stepping cautiously into the bedroom, the Ravenclaw makes no mention of it.

"Hello, Luna," Hermione carefully announces as she shuts the door behind her.

"Hi, Hermione," Luna replies, staring blankly ahead.

Hermione isn't a fool. She's been in plenty of Order meetings and heard what happened to captured Phoenixes. She'd read the reports for those who had been allowed to return … physically unharmed. As the war drags into its eighth year (or was it fourteen years, now?), the Dark slipped further into depravity. Members of the Light are tortured and killed if they are captured alive, and if they had damning information, they are subjected to unspeakable things. Harry and the others never tell her what sorts of things outright, as if she wasn't a young woman steeped in the virtues of war. But this war was a part of them all, whether Harry and the others like it or not, and rather than imagine the worst, she seeks out the Ravenclaw to offer support in the best way she could.

Hermione did not have to read Luna's medical file upon her harried return to know that the pretty witch had been subjected to horrid things. Hermione desperately wants to ask the witch what she had experienced as she sits quietly on the bedspread beside her; her curiosity is a dangerous thing. But when the witch suddenly grabs her hand and squeezes for dear life, Hermione tempers the question on her tongue.

Quietly, "I'm sorry," Hermione whispers as she reaches forward to push an errant lock behind the young woman's ear.

Unshed tears gather in bright, blue eyes as Luna's lips tremble. Leaning forward as if to kiss, Luna offers her terrible secret, "The scary thing is…" A hair width's away, Luna searches Hermione's face for evidence of shame. "I don't think I am."

Hermione swallows and nods, stemming the condemnation that sours her gut. She is in no place to judge, so she doesn't. "You are alive. That is all that matters." She rubs the witch's back and thinks of all the words that will not come. So, she sits with Luna as slowly, the story begins.

"It's a game to them. The Dark Lord's _Dark Hand_." Luna looks away as she recalls her captivity. "How quickly can they break you. How they use your own mind and body against you until you aren't sure what's right and what's wrong anymore. It was absolute hell, and at the same time, it isn't," she whispers into her lap in disgust. "When I was there, all I wanted was to leave, but when I close my eyes, all I see is him." Luna's fingernails pinch into her palms. "He is forever a part of me," she laments, as tears fall down her cheeks.

Here, Hermione offers solace, "He doesn't have to be. Not anymore." She takes ahold of Luna's hand. "We will help you."

"You won't," Luna answers forlornly. "Not after what I've done."

There is barely time for confusion before shouts of warning sound through the rickety floorboards. Hermione stands in alarm as Luna remains frozen on the bed. As if she knew this was coming all along.

Accusingly, Hermione questions as she removes her wand from her holster, "What did you tell them, Luna?!"

Hermione receives her answer as shouts below indicate Grimmauld Place is under attack. One of the rebellion's last strongholds is falling. She gives Luna a disapproving look before she rushes out of the bedroom and into war. A few of them are fighting the onslaught of Death Eaters, but most are retreating. She hopes Harry has since escaped as she casts and aims every spell she could think of at the hooded figures as they advance closer. Right before her magical core expires, she turns her wand upon her head and whispers, " _Obliviate in brevi._ " It is a modified spell she has been working on, although she never thought she would use it.

The spell takes the last of her magic, but she is not done yet. Stowing her wand, she resorts to punching and kicking and screaming, desperate to provoke her opponents into using the _Avada_.

Because she would rather die than let them take her alive.

But they must've known this because in short order, they restrain her flailing arms and silence her raw screams. Her wand is taken quickly after that. No, they will not let Harry Potter's best friend die in battle. Quickly, they Apparate her away from former rebellion stronghold. Purposefully, they jump twice more until she is too sick to properly discern her surroundings.

Still, she fights them. Her legs go limp and she sags in her captors' arms as they pull her up a gravel entryway. She struggles against their hold, albeit weakly, but still, she struggles all the same. They have already taken her voice, but she silently yells in protest as they drag her up and over the threshold of an ancient stone house. The magical wards, warm and searching, caress her skin as they pull her through the barrier until she is thrown mercilessly onto a pristine marble floor.

On her hands and knees, she glances through curls to the men who brought her here. She tracks two pairs of black boots as they circle around her.

"She has valuable information, I'm sure of it. Could we just use a penseive?" one of the Death Eaters asks.

Hermione remains as still as the other replies, "You bloody fool! Did you hear her earlier- she's oblivated herself!"

The first man approaches and speaks down at her. "Not all the way. Isn't that right, sweetheart? She would've gone limp as a noodle, if she did. No, this one's hiding something from us." He bends to grab her chin and roughly pulls her up to him. "Aren't you, love?"

Hermione glares at his ivory mask, unable to reply.

"Cat got your tongue?" The first man chuckles and he orders his partner, "Take her upstairs and call Parkinson. She'll know what to do."

* * *

 _an: More to come..._


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you so much for your interest, dear readers. My beta is enjoying some much deserved R&R, so all mistakes in this chap are my own. Please enjoy.

Chapter Two

* * *

Ashton Hall is nothing like Malfoy Manor. Considerably smaller in scale, it reeks of new wealth with its exorbitant displays of exotic art and contemporary sculptures. But it is a recent acquisition from the fall of Muggle Britain and since it was gifted by the Dark Lord himself, Draco feigns gratefulness as it is presented to him.

Within the modest six-bedroom Hall, Pansy is quick to set aside their personal apartments and the rooms they will use for 'work.' She finds it purposeful, decorating and such, for their extracurricular activities. Her drive to create a suitable atmosphere very much reminds him of his mother.

These days, most memories of Narcissa Malfoy have blurred into a finite loop. Vividly, Draco can recall a warm smile and a soft hand on his shoulder. The rest is a blur. He actively tries not to think of Lucius. The elder Malfoy is proud of his station in the Dark Lord's new world order. He doesn't have the status he used to enjoy, but he grovels and serves like the rest of them.

There is little time to dwell on the past though, as Draco neatly tucks memories of yesteryear into the recess of his mind. Most of his day is spent honing his craft, alone. In his spare time, he reads and takes his meals with Blaise and Pansy. Draco is very much a man who likes routines. Following dinner in the dining hall, he indulges in a long bath, where he slips beneath the hot water in hopes to escape the day's tolls.

After a house-elf brings him a clean glass and a bottle of Ogden's Olde, he sips in solitude on his private veranda. Per his orders, he's not to be disturbed, but the second evening after moving into Ashton Hall, Pansy joins him on the veranda, a crisp piece of parchment with the Dark Lord's seal in hand.

"I told you there'd be more guests now that Muggle Britain's fallen." She waves the missive around as if it's golden. "We've a fresh batch, including …" She lets the sentence hangs, enticingly. "…Potter's Mudblood!" she exclaims. "Can you believe it?"

Draco chuckles but doesn't turn to face her. His friend's excitement is palpable, but it does not affect him. Little else does these days. "Still holding grudges from Hogwarts, Pansy? I knew you were shallow, but this takes the cake." He takes another drink, waiting for her inevitable response.

Pansy harrumphs, but refuses to take his bait. "Can you imagine? Showing that jumped up Mudblood who's superior now?"

"Granger is into girls, then?" he drawls, feigning surprise, as their subtle haggling over prisoners begins. Each of the Dark Hand's guests is examined once they arrive in their care, particularly their strengths. Blaise, Pansy, and he dissect these strengths against their combined set of skills until a specialized regimen is designed for maximum efficiency. In the end, their methods always work.

Pansy pouts as Draco easily deconstructs her arguments for taking on a high-profile prisoner such as Granger. "I'm curious enough to give it a go," she protests. "I'd love to fuck with her bushy head."

"We'd _all_ like to show that 'jumped up Mudblood' who's in charge now." The phrase takes him back to Hogwarts quicker than anything had in a long time. Perhaps, it was the firewhiskey, but he's suddenly uncomfortable. He shifts in his chair and smoothly recovers, "But it doesn't mean you're best suited to do so." Draco takes another a drink, feigning disinterest. "She's knows something important, hence, why they sent her here. We don't need to break her. And Pansy, darling, you'd break her."

"You want her for yourself," Pansy sneers as if learning a dirty secret.

"Hardly." He is honest. "But your tactics are … how do I say it …. _rudimentary_." He smirks at the petulance on his former Housemate's face. "I mean to say, a woman of your talents is better suited for men, Pansy. Granger, on the other hand, requires a distinct set of skills."

Pansy huffs and drops the missive onto his lap. "Whatever, Draco. The house elves are setting her up in the Blue bedroom. Tomorrow, she's all yours."

* * *

There is an odd thrill the moment he opens his eyes at the start of a new day. It is the beginning of a new game; a game he has mastered over the years and one he has never lost. They are all a part of it, the Dark Hand and their guests, even if they aren't aware that they are. And here, all of the players follow the same set of rules.

Granger will not speak first, Draco knows this, as he steps into the Blue bedroom sometime before noon. There is calculation behind her amber eyes, even as she lays upon the bed, primed and ready for him. He closes the door and takes a selfish minute to study the woman he has not seen in seven years.

Her hair has been cut, he notices immediately. The long, errant curls he remembers from school end in just before her shoulders now. He surmises hair would be difficult to maintain during the war, and perhaps she chose to shed the extra length for ease. Her face, sharp and hardened from battle, remains the same. The swottiness has been replaced with an earned confidence as she stares him down across the room. He expects a reaction from her now that he's entered the room: a scoff, or some other derisive noise. But she remains quiet, ever calculating. He lets his gaze drift down her body and find her hands perfectly still at her waist. Her wrists are bound in leather straps. Matching straps adorn her ankles. Save for the red satin negligée, she is naked. Pansy had her dressed in a red satin top and matching knickers. He finds it fitting for Gryffindor's former princess.

Granger may have never cared about her physical appearance during their time at Hogwarts, but it is impossible to hide her femininity now, on display as it is. She lays on her back on the bed, and small breasts lay softly to her side. Years fighting the Dark Lord's regime has toned her arms and legs, but she is too skinny for her frame. Her hips, just wide enough to stir something within him, struggle to move away as he walks further into the room.

As he approaches the bed, he wonders where to start first. She isn't the most physically appealing woman he's seen in this line of work, but there is a fire beneath her eyes, and it calls to the base of him. She is mentally murdering him where he stands, he knows from looking at her, but where there is fire, there is also passion.

"Do you know where you are?" he asks for her benefit.

She shakes her head, content to deny him her voice.

He smirks. He'll take more joy in making her scream later. He files that note away for the future.

His eyes languidly sweep the length of her on the bed below. She fits perfectly on the mattress. "Do you know _why_ you're here?" He stalks around the perimeter of the bed, and without looking, knows she is intently watching his every move. "Even if you do not, I always offer this reprieve before we begin. I will offer it only once. Tell the Dark Lord what he wants and all of this will be an unpleasant memory." He waves his hand at her bound to the bed. He finds her pointed gaze. She is skeptical he gathers from the pinch between her brows, but she remains defiant.

"There is nothing to tell," she says simply. As if it were ever that simple.

"Nothing, truly?" he repeats because the past has taught him well. "Or nothing because you made it so?"

Granger remains silent, but Draco is well aware of this cat and mouse game. All who entered his care expected to trap the cat, but all left completely wrong. He continues, in the expanse of her silence. "I'd heard how you'd charmed a part of your memory away. As such, the Dark Lord is reluctant to subject you to his usual delights for fear of inadvertently damaging your mind." He stands at the foot of the bed and smirks down at her. "And we can't have that."

He continues, "So the question remains. Just what is the great Hermione Granger hiding?" He smiles at her, ever perceptive of this game by now. "This is the part where you sing-song, 'I'll never tell'," he feigns a tune.

Granger turns her head to the ceiling, refusing to meet his gaze. "You disgust me."

"Do I? But you don't even know I what I do."

Her throat bobbles as she swallows her fear. Immediately the hoods of his eyes lower and Draco wonders what it would look like to have his dick swallowed down that pretty throat. Bravely, she replies, "I've heard enough."

"Really? And what do they say?" He sits by her feet, eager to hear the whispers spread about him among the rebellion. He certainly knows what they say about the Dark Hand among the Dark Lord's court. "Come now, do tell," he insists.

"You rape women."

He dips his head in partial agreement. "And men," he adds in. "You mustn't forget the men, although, that is more of Pansy's foray. And from what I hear, there are all too willing to sing for her."

She closes her eyes as if that would make him disappear. "You're repulsive."

"Yes, I've heard this, too. But do you really want to know what I do?"

She shakes her head, desperate to ignore him, but she will listen to every word whether she wants to or not. He watches as her breath escapes past her lips and the way it causes her satin-covered chest to rise and fall.

"It's certainly hot in here. Haven't you noticed?" He tracks a bead of sweat as it gathers at her temple, but the witch remains silent. "A heating charm's been cast for this very room." Draco looks around the modest bedroom, amused. He returns his gaze to her, glittering with dark promise. "A modification Blaise insisted upon for you. How special – don't you think?"

Granger opens her eyes to narrowed slits, and once more tugs on her wrists, which remain frozen by her side. Yes, the predictable struggle begins.

"Ingenious, aren't they?" He indicates to her leather-bound wrist. He moves to lift it as if it were light as a feather. "This one here is yours truly." He examines her wrist bound in smooth leather, secured enough to be comfortable, but unable to be dislodged. A matching pair of leather bracelets adorn her ankles at the foot of the bed. "These leather straps are completely weightless to me. I can lift," he demonstrates by lifting her hand to his lips. He gives the faintest kiss to her bruised knuckles. "But to you…" he drops her wrist and it falls to the bed as if weighted by stone. " … it is an impossible weight." He smirks at her. "Like I said, ingenious?"

"Monster," she sneers at him.

"Crude," he replies, bored. "I'd expect a more robust insult from the _former_ brightest witch of her age."

"I know what you did to Luna. And the countless others. I am not afraid." She steels herself for what she believes is to come and closes her eyes for effect.

Draco wants to laugh. "I expect nothing less." He crosses his leg as he sits on the bedspread beside her waist. "But you're wrong. I did not touch your Luna. That was Blaise. He has a gifted tongue, you see." He lifts his brow, teasing.

She peeks beneath her eyelids and eyes him warily as if said devil's tongue would make an appearance right then.

His mouth pulls into a tight grin. "You're thinking I'm going to do the same to you? No, I don't typically indulge in the oral delights Blaise favors." Wand in hand, he waves it over an open palm and a single cube of ice appears. "You see, I find touch to be the _most_ delicate of the senses." He examines the ice cube and in his peripheral, catches her wide eyes on it as well. Here, Draco informs her, "You can force yourself not to _see_ all the wicked things I will do to your body. You can hum a song in your head and not hear as I own every single inch of you. You can sew your mouth shut and deny me your sweet song when you break apart, but you cannot force your skin…" Here, he dances the ice cube along the length of her bare thigh.

The reaction is immediate as she shivers from the droplets of cold water that explode on her heated skin. He watches as the droplets run quickly to the underside of her thigh and she struggles against the sensation. Pleased, he continues, "… You cannot block this tangle of nerves from feeling every measure of pleasure I will give you, Granger." Upward, he drags the ice towards the outside of her hip. She shimmies away from him, but he continues to draw a circle on the bare flesh he finds there. "And there will be pleasure."

He drags the melting cube up and over her heated center until a drop of ice water falls onto the cavern of her stomach. Her middle hallows out with the sensation and she grimaces against the instinctual reaction.

Draco chuckles at her feeble attempt to ignore his ministrations.

"Do your worst, Malfoy," she nearly growls. "And when this is over, I still won't forget what you are."

He ignores her threat and traces the melting cube across her middle (so very firm and aching to be touched) down below her navel, and further down still. She shivers as he expects her to. "My worst will be your absolute best. Are you ready for that?" he informs her as if telling her the sky is blue.

She refuses to answer and turns her head away in defiance. Something stirs within the seat of him as he accepts her unspoken challenge.

Remnants of the ice cubes melt between his fingers and he sets his thumb and forefinger on a cold path beneath her satin negligee. Her skin is hot from the charm blanketing the room, and the sensation of his cold fingers on her skin must be terrible. He watches as she tries to school her face to not give him the reaction he seeks.

 _Oh, this will be fun._

His hand plays near the underside of her breast and he is tempted to take the supple flesh in hand, but he is patient. For now. He reminds her one more time as he pushes up the hem of her negligee, "Again, there's isn't any need to continue, if you'd just tell the Dark Lord what he wants."

She shifts, uncomfortable beneath him. Her head finally turns to face him, and her amber eyes are defiant, even in captivity. "Never," she promises.

Secretly, he is pleased.

Draco smirks. "Then tomorrow we shall play a little game. Do try and get some rest, Granger." He politely lowers her negligee as if covering a lover. "I'll see you then."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A woman's screams follow Draco from unconsciousness to consciousness as he awakes with a start. His forehead is damp, and his hands grip black bedsheets as he tries to regulate his breathing. It's been ages since he last dreamed of his mother, and the unpleasant images only serve as a reminder to reinforce his mental walls.

Sitting up in his bed, Draco drags a shaking hand through damp hair. Eyes closed, he takes deep breaths until the gruesome images are tucked away neatly in the recess of his mind. Part of him wants to understand why he would dream about the night his mother died on the day he is to begin with Granger, but this morning, of all mornings, is not the time for such deductions.

So, he exits the bed focused on other things. Things he excels at. As he bathes and readies for the day, he mentally cards through tactics to take with the witch currently sweating in anticipation in the Blue bedroom of Ashton Hall. He flings ideas aside as he dresses (a light grey turtleneck and simple black trousers) for today's work. Normally Blaise and Pansy would offer their suggestions, to ensure maximum success, but Draco wants complete autonomy over Granger's course of the carnal delights.

He takes his time over a breakfast of fruits, dried meats, and tea, and leisurely strolls about the manor's grounds. It is a dance of anticipation he's set in motion and rather than rush in, Draco is content to play with Granger's head before they begin. Pansy joins him on his silent stroll through the meticulous gardens. She knows what he's doing and will not push him, but still, she prods in her own way.

"Did you like the red?" his old friend asks, hands resting comfortably in her peacoat.

He dips in his head in the affirmative. "A touching reminder. Trying to take us back to Hogwarts?"

"I thought you'd appreciate it," Pansy beams beside him. "I can have her placed in a Hogwarts uniform, if you'd like?" she teases.

"That won't be necessary."

"You wish to leave her bare and sweating? It is ridiculously hot in that room. I don't know how you stand it," she exclaimed on a scoff.

"You can thank Blaise for that. But there's no need. I'll see to Granger from now on."

Pansy tips her head up to look at him. "You will, hmm?"

The urge to roll his eyes is there, but is ignored. "Is there something you need, Pansy?"

She knows he will not truly answer the question, but she gazes at him for a moment longer, as if she could discern the answer from the determined set of his jaw. She shakes her head and they continue their walk, perfectly side by side.

* * *

It is well after noon when Draco opens the door to the Blue bedroom. A half-eaten tray of rationed food sits on the dresser across from the bed.

"I see Tiny has seen to your meal." The elf's magic allowed her to move Granger to a sitting position so that she could eat, but judging from the food remaining on the tray, the house elf wasn't as successful as he would've liked. "You should eat more, Granger. It wouldn't do to die from malnourishment before we've begun. Potter would never forgive me," he laughs at his own joke, the urge to tease too strong to ignore.

He stands above the bed, but the witch, again, refuses to grant him a reply. "How did you sleep last night?" He doesn't know why he asked, but the question came him to as he waits for an answer that will not come.

Granger closes her eyes as if aggravated and tries in vain to turn away from him. She successfully turns her neck and part of her shoulder, but her right side is weighed down by the leather bracelets adorning her wrist and ankle.

"It's rude to ignore your host, you know? I'm sure your Muggle parents taught you that much," he cuts and cuts at her as he takes in the smidges of blue that line the skin beneath eyes. He didn't need to use Occulumency to know she had slept poorly and was likely exhausted.

Good.

Tracking the length of her body as he sits on the bed, he gives her another chance to escape before they begin. "Have you given any further thought to my offer?"

She screws her eyes tight, and her lips press firm in a line. "There answer is still, 'no.'"

Draco smirks. "'No'?" he parrots back at her. "Why, Granger, do you wish to stay with me?" He bends forward to whisper conspiratorially when she doesn't respond. "Do you want to know what I think? I wager that you do." He waits for a beat after she swallows, in fear or anticipation, he cannot tell. "I think you want to beat me. You always had a competitive spirit, even back in Hogwarts. Oh, you'd never admit it aloud, but I can imagine you've told yourself, that you're stronger than Lovegood, than all those other witches who've fallen to our charms." He whispers the last into the shell of her ear. "And if any witch could succeed where they failed, it would be you."

Granger bites her lower lip and Draco takes it as confirmation. He allows himself to stroke her blunted mass of curls until they leave an expanse of her neck bare to him. Her hair is softer than he imagined and slowly, he tangles his fingers in the curly strands until her head is secured firmly in his grasp. He tugs and tugs, until she is forced to turn her chin towards him.

He pulls her hair until her chin nearly kisses her chest and finally, she opens murderous brown eyes.

"No need to worry," he assures her, as his other hand palms her bare hip. "I'll never tell a soul what happens here. It will be our little secret, if you'd like." And slowly, the hand not tangled in her hair quests up and over her hip.

He marvels as pale fingers brush against the tan of her skin. "For the next few days, it's you, me, and my dirty mind. And lucky for you, my mind is incredibly creative. Shall we begin …" His hand squeezes in-between the tight junction of her legs, as if the strength of her thighs could keep him out. He smirks at her attempt to force her out. She is stronger than she looks, but in the end, he is stronger. Lowering down he uses the strength of his forearm and elbow to push the junction of her legs apart. Eyes fixated on hers, he breathes across the red satin rolled up to her bare stomach. "Let's start slowly. I think you'll like that."

A single digit reaches out to brush against her slit. Despite Granger's frigid appearance, the heat of her cunt warms his finger and the sensation travels the length of his arm and directly to his groan. Draco watches as her eyes screwed shut again. "Would you like that, Granger?"

There are three favorite parts when playing this game of his. The first is always when he pushes into his prey's tight heat. She is tight and hot around his digit, but she is not wet. Ever studious, he observes as he circles his fingertip around her opening. Granger dutifully pushes her mouth into a firm line.

Eyes narrowing, he mutters, "Hmm, that will not do." He is close enough that her heady scent fills his nostrils, and carefully, he pushes another finger to join the first. His fingers flit and play with her opening, tracing around her slit, and that little pink nub before sinking back down into her. Each rotation slowly traces around and in, around and in, until her juices coat his fingers, despite her attempt to ignore what he's doing to her body.

Granger's eyes remain closed and he silently accepts the challenge. Pulling his fingers out, he rubs the tips together and marvels at the slickness between them.

Languidly, he pushes two fingers back into her heat, and continues his ministrations. Granger is still tight around his digits, but her inner walls accept him eagerly and cling to his knuckles each time he retreats. "How long has it been, Granger?" he asks, suddenly as he watches her chest rise and fall. "How long has it been since someone's fucked you properly?" he asked to her closed eyes. Knowing she would not respond, he stills his hand. Pushing his fingers apart, he turns them slowly within her slick heat as his knuckles work her rim. He is rewarded with a spasm, a soft fluttering to be sure, but still there.

"Did you like that?" He repeats the ministration, and this time is rewarded with a sharp inhale of air. "I can tell that it's been awhile. Tell me, was Weasley not available?" He pushes a third finger deep into the seat of her and watches her whimper.

"Are you thinking of him now?" Draco picks up the tempo as her walls stretch to fit his hand. Out and in, out and in. He can feel her little puffs of air as she tries to contain her breathing. "Is Weasley fucking his little lion in your mind's eye?"

Between them, his thumb stretches to circle her swollen nub, and Granger barely contains a whine as liquid warmth drenches his fingers. His cock stirs in his pants as he imagines her inner walls grabbing and holding onto him as they mold to his fingers.

She pants, but still refuses to open her eyes. "You could… never… be him," she grunts in time to his thrusts.

Draco chuckles low in his throat as he lowers to blow on her overheated cunt. "Very true." He feels more than he sees her shudder as he leans down to taste her. His tongue slowly tracks around her nub and although she tries to scoot away from him, he chases after her until he takes her whole and shivering into his mouth. Yanking and tugging on her curls, he sucks and pulls her into his mouth as expert fingers coax and push against her weeping walls. Although she has no right to, she tastes absolutely divine.

He hums in satisfaction as her cunt begin to twitch against his fingers as he works her with mouth, lips, and tongue.

"No, please…" She begs somewhere above him, but the game is afoot, and he has yet to lose a match.

Granger's skin overheats and just as she begins to shake, he sharply pulls away from her with a wet 'smack' and removes his hand from her heat. He licks his lips in satisfaction at denying her completion, but she is shivering in her conviction as he slides up her body to lay atop her.

He wants nothing more than to discard his trousers and sink into the heat of her, but he will have her mind before he does. He promises himself as much as he takes in her pinched brows and jagged breathing. Her hair is wet at the temples and sweats beads its way into her hair. The fingers that played in her cunt grip her chin and he marvels at the sheen that now lines her jawline.

"Look at me, Granger," he orders, nearly as breathless as she. She shakes her head, still held in his grasp, and he commands her again.

He's taken aback when she does so this time – not at her lack of defiance, but at the flash of amber that colors her irises when she does. He tracks the molten gold across the burnt honey as wet digits fall from her chin in disbelief.

Though her bottom lip quivers, her eyes burn into his. Granger licks dry lips, before whispering to him, "You aren't the only monster here, Malfoy."

* * *

 _AN: I do apologize for the lengthy wait, dear readers. Inspiration was hard to come by so I took some time to read and play in other fandoms for a bit. I daresay the inspiration has returned. Thank you for reading._


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